21 July: Boreham on Robert Burns

The Soul of Scotland
A pensive mood will overtake every Scotsman today. It was on 21 July that Robert Burns passed from us. Since the world began no nation has ever become articulate in a single poet to anything like the degree in which Scotland has become articulate in Burns. Shakespeare is English, but not exclusively English; Moore is Irish, but not exclusively Irish; Dante is Italian but not exclusively Italian; but Burns is of the very stuff of Scotland. The fragrance of the heather is on every line that he penned.

He was, above everything else, a prophet of patriotism. He describes himself as "a Scottish bard, proud of the name, whose highest ambition is to sing in his country's service." He was only 25 when it occurred to him that he might become the laureate of Scotland.

E'en then a wish, I mind its power,
A wish that, to my latest hour,
Shall
strongly heave my breast—
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
Some useful
plan or beuk could make
Or sing a sang at least.

All the world loves a lover, whatever may be the object that excite his passion. Burns was a lover par excellence. He loved men; he loved women; he loved horses; he loved dogs; he loved the world in which he lived; and, most devotedly, he loved Scotland. That sums up everything.

No stranger who watched him as his horny hand drove the quill across those prentice pages would have suspected him of having come straight from the plough. His frame, well-knit and of medium height, so far from having about it any trace of awkwardness or clumsiness, was borne with a certain indefinable stateliness and grace. He wore a plain but becoming suit of hodden grey. The most arresting features in his personal appearance were his shock of raven-black hair and his large dark eyes—the eyes that Sir Walter Scott declared to be the most glorious imaginable.


The Creation Of A National Sentiment
When the young ploughman-poet first set pen to paper, he had but 12 years in which to realise his proud ambition, for he died at 37. That he did realise it, nobody can doubt. He struck his lyre at a moment when the national spirit of his "poor auld Scotland" was at its lowest ebb. The romance of Scottish history seemed dead; the glory had departed. The Scottish people who remained in Scotland had ceased to feel an ardent pride in the land of their birth, while those who crossed the border and settled in other lands did all that was possible to conceal their nationality. As a mere youth, Burns deplored this lamentable tendency and blushed for it. In 12 short years he changed the national temper, lifted the Scottish tradition to the loftiest levels of romance, made every Scotsman proud of his native land, and gave a new impetus to patriotism throughout the whole empire.

Principal Shairp declares that if, today, Scotsmen love and cherish their country with a pride unknown to their ancestors of the 18th century, if strangers of all countries look on Scotland as a land of romance, this condition of affairs is due entirely to Robert Burns who first turned the tide of feeling, leaving it to Sir Walter Scott to carry it to full flood.

This brings into juxtaposition the two resounding names, Burns and Scott! The two need not be compared. A vast amount of time and energy has already been squandered on the ludicrous attempt. But beyond the shadow of a doubt, Burns created the atmosphere that made possible the work of his illustrious successor. Burns had been nine years in his grave before Sir Walter's first folios were given to the world.

Tardy Recognition Of Tremendous Obligation
One hates to reflect that, after having compassed an achievement of first-class national importance, Burns passed away amid every circumstance of poverty. Allan Cunningham tells us that, when the people heard that the poet was dying, everything else was forgotten. Knots of sorrow-stricken admirers gathered at every street-corner to gossip about his history, his person, his works, and the bitter loss that they were so soon to sustain. Principal Shairp significantly adds that, during those days of terrible suspense, and in the course of the universal lamentation and the imposing public funeral which followed, a certain poignant sense of self-reproach mingled with the general grief as men asked themselves whether they might not have done more to cherish and prolong that rarely gifted life.

There is one phase of the life of Robert Burns to which justice has never been done. We catch a glimpse of it in the memoirs edited by James Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, and William Motherwell. In the course of a journey, Burns and a friend were sharing a room for the night. The friend, retiring early, pretended to be asleep when Burns at length entered the apartment. With half-closed eyes he watched the poet. He saw him move restlessly about the room for a little, and then throw himself on his knees with his face leaning on his arms, which were across a chair. In this position he began to pray audibly, and by degrees became so fervid in his appeals for mercy and forgiveness that his friend crept out of bed and knelt down beside him. But Burns neither heard nor saw and continued his own devotions. "No man," said his friend afterwards, "could have prayed with such obvious passion and sincere contrition unless prayer had been a regular habit with him." When at last Burns stopped and looked about, and found his friend on his knees at his side, he shook his head and seemed displeased at having been observed and overheard.

In this atmosphere we take leave of him. Ever since his bones were laid to rest a century and a half ago, men have vaguely felt that something was owing to his memory. And every man who turns aside from the rush and bustle of life to pay some modest tribute to the lustre of his name makes his personal contribution to the discharge of that formidable debt.

F W Boreham

Image: Robbie Burns